


A Rewrite of History

by WeRWaffle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Enemies, Angels are Dicks (Supernatural), Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel is Brainwashed, Dean Winchester is John's Good Little Soldier, EVERYTHING GOES WRONG, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Reader is from our universe, Reader-Insert, Really really really slow burn, Scary Winchesters (Supernatural), Slow Burn, The Reader is Trying Her Best, The Winchesters Are Oblivious, the poor reader is traumatized
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29968866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeRWaffle/pseuds/WeRWaffle
Summary: At least you were modest enough to admit that you’d probably end up as the star blood splatter within the first five minutes of the show.Unfortunately, nobody seems to care what you think.As you're blackmailed by angels, terrorized by demons, and threatened by the Winchesters themselves, you find yourself smack dab in the middle of everything Supernatural with no hope for escape.Seriously, you need to get the hell out of here.Because Sam Winchester thinks you killed Jessica.
Kudos: 9





	1. Pilot

Even in such terrible times, you could find some good in the world. For instance: none of this was your fault.

Not even you could botch something up so royally.

One minute, you were in your kitchen searching your freezer for the last box of pizza rolls, and the next, you were standing on gravel.

You were smack dab in the middle of a salvage yard. The more you took in your surroundings, the more your stomach pooled with dread. There were dozens of rusty cars and a suspiciously-shaped, freshly-dug patch of dirt right by your feet. You paused, turning around and slowly bringing your eyes to the sign not ten feet from your face.

The Singer Salvage Yard.

You pivoted, staring at the mass of cars surrounding you, trying to make some sense of your situation.

Sure, everyone has thought about being a part of an alternate world, but you were at least modest enough to admit that if there was any character going to live, it would never be you. With your luck, you’d be the star blood splatter of the first five minutes.

You stared dumbly. This wasn’t possible.

You had no history of lucid dreaming. You threw a hand in front of your face, trying to justify this reasoning, but everything was too vivid.

A door slam behind you made you jolt, and without thinking you threw yourself down and behind a car. 

“Who’s out there?!” a voice bellowed.

Bobby goddamn Singer.

Looks like you hadn’t been as quiet as you’d thought.

Bobby would not take too kindly to a stranger on his property. He was the kind of grumpy neighbor who would warn against trespassing with his shotgun.

There was a chance you could convince him to help, but admittedly you were too much of a coward to face him and explain.

You tucked your arms against your hips, and then froze when there was a crinkle of paper in your right pocket. That hadn’t been there before. 

Keeping in mind that Bobby was walking around somewhere in the lot, you quietly removed the paper and unfolded it to reveal a small wad of cutout newspaper articles. You skimmed it hurriedly, realizing they all had one thing in common. Missing persons from Jericho, California. All ten spaced out throughout the years.

Wait, wasn’t that the plot of Supernatural’s Pilot?

“Show yourself!” Bobby bellowed again. He sounded pissed.

You needed a game plan—and fast.

Here goes. You sprung up from your hiding spot and ran for the most reliable looking car in your range. A deafening gunshot rang out.

He had narrowly missed.

“Damn it!” he cried.

You threw yourself into the backseat of the vehicle. Conveniently, the keys hung from the mirror. You scrambled to grab and fit them in the ignition with shaking hands. 

More shots were fired, this time denting the metal and blowing out the back window's glass. The engine burst with life, and you burned rubber.

The car squealed as you swerved out of the yard and onto the dirt road. Then you took a chance. You hid behind the seat and shouted out to him, “What year is it?”

“Why the hell would I tell you?!” More shots ricocheted off the metal and you recoiled.

Touché.

You peeked your head out, and ducked again when bullets sprayed in your direction. “It’s important!” you shouted, hoping he would confirm what you already feared.

He had taken a defensive stance twenty feet from the running car, prepared to fire if he saw eyes. “What, you gonna say you come from the future or something? It’s 2005, ” he snarled. He was being sarcastic, but it was the aching truth.

“Or something,” you muttered. Then shouted, “I’m really sorry about your car!” You sped off, already reeling in the small and neglected vehicle. This wasn’t going to be a fun ride.

More shots fired, and you distantly heard him holler in frustration. You didn’t blame him; you’d want to kill you too.

❡

If Bobby could see you right now, he’d be laughing.

The excuse of a vehicle had begun sputtering thirty miles in, and after forty miles, it began lurching to a stop. You punched the steering wheel. 

It was karma.

You closed your eyes, then looked glumly at the passenger seat. There was a grey backpack situated beside you, which you could swear hadn't been there a moment before.

You blinked. Apprehensively, you reached for it. It was surprisingly heavy.

Your eyes bugged out when you saw it’s contents. Inside was a pistol, a silver knife, a sack of salt, cash, and a goddamn angel blade. Christ. Well, wasn't that just subtle. That would definitely go well with everyone.

You frowned, noticing two folded pieces of paper had been stapled to a sock.

You opened it, reading, ‘We won’t let you die until the future runs a different path.’

Ominous.

You scoffed a little, but your stomach clenched. What did they mean, ‘let you die’? Wouldn’t the correct threat be ‘we’ll kill you’?

Because you certainly didn’t want to die, so you didn’t see how that was encouraging at all. Unless they were implying that you’d be wishing for it at some point.

This was not good. Very not good.

Were they really expecting you to have no regards for yourself and just… blindly interfere with the Winchesters? You were scared, but you weren’t stupid. The Winchesters would run you through the second they noticed your interference.

You flipped the note up and realized there was more to the message. ‘Tell, and your loved ones will rot.’

You couldn't help the stutter in your breath. This note was written by someone who knew you weren’t from here. They had your family. This was straight up blackmail.

That’s when the panic attack hit. 

This was your family at the mercy of something powerful enough to bring you into another universe. On the other hand, crossing paths with the Winchesters was dangerous territory.

Perhaps that’s what they meant. They’d bring you back if the Winchesters decided to kill you.

Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” you rasped, climbing out of the car, but your knees buckled and you kneeled on the gravel until you could breathe properly again.

If you ever wanted to get home, you were going to need the Winchesters’ help. When Big Brother wasn't tuning in, approach them for help?

You figured that there was only one thing that could possibly change the future so early in time. Something that was supposed to throw Sam Winchester back on the road with his brother.

Jessica's death.

You ditched the car. About a mile up there happened to be a small town, and with it, a gas station. And where there were gas stations, there were cars. Bingo.

When you finally got there, you made a beeline for today’s newspaper. It was November 1st, 2005. Just as Bobby said. 

This was actually happening.

Walking back outside the business, you began to choose the best victim—or in other words, a car. If Jessica was supposed to die soon. You would need to drive to California. And Bobby’s piece of junk wasn’t going to get you ten miles without busting apart.

There was a little Ford a few blocks away parked by a mailbox. You stared at it, rubbing your sweaty palms against your pants.

You’d never stolen a car before.

“First time for everything,” you breathed. You peered into the vehicle. It was a little worn on the inside, but it was reasonable. You couldn’t afford to be choosy.

You smashed the glass with the heel of your pistol, glancing around suspiciously. You didn’t need more trouble than you were already in.

You’d never hot-wired a car before, but the wiki-how article you’d read for writing a fanfic was proving useful.

Hissing an apology to the family who'd owned this vehicle, you drove off and buckled up for a long drive.

Time in the car gave you time to panic. You didn't have enough money to pay for a real bed. There were a few hundred dollars in twenties in the backpack, but that was for food and gas money. That really wasn't much to live on, if you thought about it. This had to last you for who knew how long. Months? Years? 

You shuddered. Please no.

Clearly, the person who had put you here had no knowledge of human spending. Because, wow, was money going to be tight without a job.

You finally pulled into a rest stop at two in the morning after yawning and struggling to stay alert for a solid thirty minutes. You thought you could push through the night by blasting tunes, but at that point, you knew you were a danger on the road and you needed to rest.

You were exhausted, but couldn’t settle down.

Your mind kept wandering back to the note, and then to Jessica. If you could save her, it would change everything.

So, this was it. Fifteen years in the past, and all the knowledge you needed to change it. You could change everything. You could save them from the pain they were going to endure. You could—

You could do anything, at this point.

You leaned your seat back, shuffling and trying to make yourself comfortable. Because if there was one thing the Winchesters did, it was drive all over the goddamn nation, so you'd better get used to the feeling.

Was this the work of angels, or the plot of something darker? More sinister?

Hell if you knew.

You cried yourself to sleep.

❡

You'd never been to California.

You were having a lot of firsts, lately.

Your impression of Palo Alto was that it was... nice. It was sunny, which you had anticipated. Downtown was pretty busy, with bikers and pedestrians left and right. Trees were everywhere, providing shade as a contrast to the harsh sun. You respected Palo Alto. You did. It had a nice, suburban feel to it.

The only trouble was the traffic. You were stuck in a constant go-lurch go-lurch motion for more than an hour.

By the time you got to the street you wanted, it was getting dark again. You ended up asking a man walking his dog for the route to the campus. To put it lightly, you were a little desperate. 

The sun was kissing the horizon when you finally made it. Instead of breaking in the doorway, you climbed in through a loose window with a pry of your knife.

You tumbled in. You looked up and froze in horror at the scene before you. A battered Jessica was pushed up against the wall by an invisible force, and Brady, Sam's college friend, was looking at you with a maniacal grin. "You're just in time for the show."

You stared in devastation at Jessica, she already looked half dead, gasping as the demon slowly pushed her toward the ceiling. Jessica cried, pleading for her life. 

If you hadn't gone to that rest stop, you would've been there in time. You could have saved Jess.

Mortified, you backed away from Brady. You gripped the angel blade in your bag, which was loosely hung at your shoulder. But he vanished with a puff of black smoke, leaving you with a dead girl on the ceiling and a sick feeling in your gut.

Oh God.

"Jess?" someone called out from the front of the house. "You home?"

Sam was home.

You felt a third panic attack edging on. Your feet were glued to the floorboards. You couldn’t move.

There was a pause, and then you saw Sam come around the door-frame. He stopped when he saw you.

"Who are you?" he asked cautiously.

You couldn't really breathe right now, much less speak.

Your last brain cell realized that at any second the house was going to burst into flames. You had to get out. Now.

Sam noticed a red pool forming on the bed, and looked up. His expression morphed into one of devastation. The look of loss as he cried out his girlfriend’s name was absolutely heartbreaking. And it was all your fault.

Flames erupted around Jessica before you even had control of your lungs.

Dean rushed in, shouting his brother’s name and locking himself around Sam to pull him back away from the fire. Away from Jess.

You broke into a fit of coughing, breaking your train of thought. Blindly, you reached for the window again, batting at the latch. Climbing out took some effort, but you wedged your way through the window, collapsing in a heap on the ground. You were still wheezing when you got up. 

You needed to get the hell out of here. 

Because now Sam Winchester thought you killed Jessica.


	2. Wendigo

From your rough memory, Sam and Dean sweep around Stanford for about a week.

Aware that you theoretically had a seven day head start, you decided to take on the Wendigo case before the Winchesters caught it in the papers. 

How hard could it be?

You snorted. What were you kidding—you weren’t a hunter. This was going to be the greatest challenge you have ever faced.

You knew that your destination was Lost Creek, Colorado, but stopped in Grand Junction to try and settle everything out. Your first stop was at a gas station, where you took a few minutes to stretch and think over your nonexistent plan.

Exhausting levels of homesickness had hit you multiple times through that long morning of driving. It was heavy and demanding. Frankly, you ached for the days when Supernatural was just a show.

Thankfully, having nearly watched it nearly three times, you were pretty sure you could depend on your memory. 

There was one problem. What was canon now was slowly getting altered as you interfered, and it was going to become harder to gauge what was coming. The script would soon become unreliable. That is, if you hadn’t already screwed everything up. 

And if that didn’t terrify you, the thought of being on the Winchester’s hit list did.

The nozzle clicked, and you placed it back on the pump. You grit your teeth. There went twenty dollars.

You were hungry, too. Walking into the gas station, you realized you hadn’t had anything to eat since yesterday afternoon.

Good thing you had the experience of a broke college student.

You breathed through your anxiety as you paid for the items, walking back out to your car.

What to do next.

Well, you figured the county library wasn’t a bad place to start. Thing was, the library closed at nine p.m, and it was already eight. 

When you got there, you realized something. The computers were the size of microwaves. Fantastic. 

Hesitantly, you opened a browser and typed in the search box: wendigo.

You needed the wendigo sigils. Or... whatever they were called. Because you didn’t have the advantage of 'dad's journal'. After scrolling through thirteen useless articles, you found something. They were called anasazi symbols.

They were a bit complex, so you borrowed some paper and a pen at the desk and traced it over the computer screen. You were thorough with your research, because one bit of false information could leave you a wendigo's dinner.

The Winchesters would be coming anyway, but you really didn’t want to cross paths. You were a suspect to Jessica's murder, after all.

Everytime that you closed your eyes to sleep, you saw Jess. 

You were probably beating yourself up more than Sam was, if that was even possible.

You wished you could tell him, somehow. Tell Sam that it wasn’t you. Tell him you were sorry. 

Except that would be suicide, wouldn't it? Sam Winchester would gut you before you could think of what to say. Even if bastards that sent you here had promised to keep you alive, there was only so much they could do before the Winchesters figured out a way to put you down and keep you down for good.

"Ma'am."

You jumped and spun around, startled by the librarian behind you. You’d been sleeping at the desk.

“We really don’t allow… um, rituals in the library.”

It took you far longer than you would like to admit to process what she meant. You looked from her, to the anasazi sigils, and then back to her in dismay. "What?" you squeaked, "No, no. I'm just... I'm just a writer." You weren't lying. Not really, anyway. You'd written some fanfictions here and there.

"I see," she said, but she was still clearly judging you and your collection of suspicious-looking symbols. "Well, we're closing."

"Oh—right, okay. Thank you,” you said, shuffling stiffly out of your chair to collect your things.

She walked away, and you kept the two pens and notepad you’d previously stolen off her desk. You were probably going to need them more than her.

❡

As it turns out, you can't just impulsively buy flamethrowers. Who knew?

Not only were they hard to get, but they were also expensive. Way too expensive for your budget. In result, you were going to have to DIY and build a... less desirable flamethrower.

You bought hairspray and a lighter at the local grocery store.

It was dark out. You knew it was a stupid idea to try and hunt the thing in the night, where it was more adept to hunt. 

The game plan was to sleep in the car until morning, then head to Blackwater Ridge. A plan that might end with you crossing paths with the Winchesters boys—the last thing you needed.

Things weren’t looking too promising between you and them. First impressions were important in a developing relationship, and you were pretty sure you’d screwed yourself in that department.

You sighed and rubbed your eyes. It was late.

You locked the doors, pulled the keys from the ignition, and crawled into the back seat. The leather was worn and sort of cold, but it cushioned you enough. It really did make you wish you had a blanket. The way it curved your spine wasn't very comfy, and you knew if you did this for too long, you'd be ensuring future back problems.

Instead, you hugged your little backpack to your chest, and spent the night worrying about your family, and fearing for their lives.

❡

Morning hit you like a fist to the face.

The sun was blinding and the car was stuffy and hot. You got out of the vehicle and appreciating the cool breeze for a while. 

This was the big day.

Well, relatively big. This case wouldn't mean anything in the long run. Whoever yeeted you here clearly wanted history to be disrupted on a major scale. This wendigo hunt would do nothing but tell the Winchesters to keep looking for their dad.

It was still changing history, though, right?

In all honesty, you didn’t know what else to do. You couldn't just sit around and wait for history to change itself. You had your family to fight for. You had to do _something_. Anything. Sitting around wasn't an option.

You were scared, though. Terrified. You weren’t cut out for this. You weren't prepared for what hunting entailed. And you certainly weren't ready to take on a Wendigo.

You flipped the can of hairspray in your hand, pondering your choices. Not that there were many.

You sat in the back of your car, with the door opened wide to let a nice breeze in. You tinkered with your materials, taking off the cover of the lighter, and began turning the adjustment wheel so the flame would be taller.

Curiously, you raised the can of hairspray. Holding it far from your body, you let the flame burst forward onto the lighter. Startled, you flinched and backed into your car. The resulting flame was much larger than you had expected.

Damn.

You smiled proudly to yourself, and promptly threw it back in your car.

After a quiet minute of thought, you had the car purring with life.

No going back now.

❡

You pulled up to Blackwater Ridge feeling vastly unprepared. You had one to two days before the Winchesters showed up, and you wanted to be long gone before then.

Not only was there a wendigo out there, but bears. Bears and bear traps. And, by god, you only had a lighter and some hairspray for defense.

Who were you kidding, you were screwed.

This was happening. You were going to hunt this thing, find it's little cave, and torch it. You could do this. A hike. That's all this was. A little hike.

There was a sign on the side of the road as you walked up, announcing that chances of wildfires was 'High'.

Convenient.

This kid, Tommy Collins, was somewhere out there. And the faster he got help, the better. So scrounging up every fiber of courage in your body, you stepped onto the forest trail, which was worn-down from past campers.

The trees started out thin and weedy, but as you trekked deeper, the shrubs thickened and the branches became knotted and gnarled. The trail grew scattered and less obvious.

You gripped the hairspray and lighter like it was your lifeline—and it was, to some degree.

You knew it was smart. Smarter than you, obviously, considering you were dumb enough to even do this. You had no back up. Just you, the woods, and it.

And goddamn bears.

You decided to set camp for the night once the sun began to hide behind the trees. These woods were expansive, and it would take a while to track down the wendigo's hiding spot. 

You replicated the anasazi symbols you’d drawn in your notebook in the dirt with a stick, double checking them to ensure that there were no mistakes. You couldn't afford mistakes.

You had chosen a little patch of land where the dirt was fine and chalky. There was a stump in the center—the break was natural. It must have been wiped out by a storm. It had grown a shell of moss around the base, and you hoped it would provide enough of a cushion to rest on.

You needed to get a fire going. You collected some dry wood, making a little stack. Then, you torched it.

You were a little lean on wood, though. You would need some more the last you through the night. Two more handfuls and you would be satisfied.

You made sure not to venture too far from your camp. Gathering dry wood and dead brush was easy—Blackwater Ridge was at high risk for fires, after all.

You dropped the first bundle right onto the fire, then went back for one more. 

You didn't notice at first—the crunch of dead leaves against your feet and your rough breath covered it up. But then, you heard it.

It wasn’t the noise that worried you. Rather, the lack of it.

Every survival instinct within you suddenly kicked in, and you decided to call it a night, running off to safety like a child scared of turning off the light in the basement.

Only difference was, you had a valid reason to be terrified.

You made it back to basecamp in one piece, but your heart was going nuts. You clenched and unclenched your hands, leaning against a tree. You really really weren’t keen on becoming wendigo chow.

You were safe, you reminded yourself. It couldn’t get through the symbols. That was, if you drew them right.

What calmed nerves, anyway? Food? Food. You needed to eat anyway. You'd skipped lunch.

With shaky hands, you took out the bread and peanut butter from your bag, and spread it on the bread with your hunting knife. It was better than spreading it with a stick or something. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t like it lost it's function. I could still stab someone to death.

You then cleaned off the knife with your shirt, which was already soiled from a day of hiking.

The sandwich was heavenly. Just to eat something after ignoring your hunger all day was calming enough. The fire brought relief to your muscles, your stomach was happy, and you were okay—mostly. Hopefully.

You'd have most of tomorrow to gank this thing before the Winchesters came. Assuming you didn't run into any trouble.

You were finally getting comfortable, when an unfamiliar man's voice rang out into the night. "Help!"

You startled, glancing out into the forest. Voice mimicking. It was trying to draw you out.

The wendigo knew you were here. You were no longer the hunter. You were the hunted.

❡

You couldn't sleep.

The orange glow of the campfire illuminated the trees and exaggerated the long shadows and threatening silhouettes. Not to mention the wendigo wouldn't shut up. It was trying to exhaust you. And damn, it was working.

Morning came aggravatingly slow. 

You knew the wendigo was close still, because the birds refused to chirp, even though it was late morning.

You weren't in the greatest position at the moment. The wendigo could sit there all day, watching from the trees, but you couldn't. The only way you might get this thing in firing range was to risk stepping outside the circle.

"Come on out, you coward!" you yelled. "You want to kill me, and I want to kill you. So let's do it already!"

There wasn't an answer for a moment. But then you heard laughing. Deep, eerie laughing that the thing must have heard from past campers, and was now repeating.

It was mocking you.

"I see how it is," you said.

Your odds weren't great.

Then, a little lightbulb shot up above your head. It was probably the dumbest, most reckless thing you’d ever decided upon.

You torched the trees.

The thing scrambled nearby, rustling and trying to get away from the flames. But these fires were aggressive and lashing out. It screamed and must have caught fire, because it fell from the tree like a rock, growling and writhing in pain.

Cautiously, you watched from the edge of your protective circle, just in case the creature decided to get back on its feet. But it stayed, scratching at the ground in agony.

You put the bastard out of its misery. It was more than it deserved.

Now to find Tommy.

You weren’t walking long before you began to hear voices. People. You peered at them from behind a tree as the Winchesters and the Collins’ family came around the bend of trees from where the coal mine was. 

They had already found Tommy. To your delight, Roy was alive, too, because you had graciously kept the wendigo busy for the night.

There wasn't much time before they realized they weren't alone.

They hadn't seen you yet, their eyes were drawn to the wildfire that was spreading a little too rapidly for anyone’s liking.

You spoke too soon. Dean was the first one to spot you. When he did, his entire demeanor changed. His expression became murderous.

You hightailed it out of there.

Dean wasn't far behind you. He shouted, but his words were distorted by the thrum of your heart in your ears. His tone, however, was clear as a bell. He knew who you were, and he was out for your blood.

You faltered in your step. 

Oh god.

You forgot your bag. 

You needed your bag.

You hesitated again, unintentionally slowing down a fraction. That bag was all you had. And the further you ran, the less the chances you'd ever be able to retrieve it.

Cursing yourself, you did a 180° and ran right past Dean Winchester.

He wasn't expecting that. He was too stunned to even grab for you. As he skidded to a stop he hesitated, processing what the _hell_ you were doing before tearing after you again.

You hadn’t really expected that to work.

The forest was smoky to suffocating levels, and the roar of the fire was deafening. Perhaps you hadn’t taken into account how fast wildfire spread.

You weren’t far from your camp. You just needed to get your bag and then you'd be set to run for the hills all you wished.

You reached your bag but was met with Sam Winchester at the line of your anasazi symbols. 

They had you cornered.

You met gazes with Sam, whose eyes were filled with killer intent. You understood his hatred and anger toward you. Jessica's death was horrific. To see your face again? To see the fire? It had to be tearing him apart.

This was only cementing the Winchesters' views of you. They thought you were a killer who played with fire. Something 'thing' they had to gank.

But, man, you were trying your best. Changing the future was harder than it looked.

"Who are you," Sam demanded. The only thing keeping him from killing you then and there was his need to find his Dad. You were the only lead.

"Look," you said, rushed. "I didn't kill your girlfriend."

"Right," Sam sneered. "Just like how you _didn’t_ light up half an acre?"

"I was smoking out the Wendigo. I did your job for you. Sue me."

"Oh, I'm going to do more than sue you—"

You backed away as Sam closed in, only to find that Dean was also advancing from behind you.

Without even thinking about it, you rose up the can of hairspray and aimed for Sam's eyes.

He cried out, stumbling back and wiping at his face.

"Sorry!" you choked out. You stumbled back, raising the can to get Dean, but he anticipated the move and tackled you.

"Can't do the same move twice. Not on us."

“Okay.” You slammed the hairspray can against Dean's head. He fell to the side, groaning, and you rolled away. Clutching the backpack to your shoulder, you began running.

You made the mistake of looking back.

You stopped in your tracks. Damn it. You couldn't leave them like this. 

You were going to make a sacrifice today, it seemed. One you would probably regret later. 

You reached into your bag, grumbling to yourself. What had this been, ten bucks? Ten bucks. Ten bucks so Sam and Dean could pour water in their eyes. A ten dollar water bottle.

You dug in your bag, pulling out your water bottle. You walked up to Sam, shoving the water bottle into his hands. He startled, then blindly swiped in front of him in an effort to snatch your leg, but you hopped out of reach.

You ran off like a madman.


	3. Dead in the Water

You had read once or twice that drowning was one of the worst ways to die. You couldn't disagree—it probably was. Which is why you were seriously considering skirting the next hunt.

Not that the next one was any better. With doomed airplanes and all that.

You were crossing your fingers that it would take the Winchesters at least a day to recoup. It was a feeble wish and you knew it; the most you’d probably given them was a headache, irritated eyes, and a greater desire to kill you.

You were going to have to try and wrap this case up quick, or you would be evading the Winchesters constantly.

Dead in the Water was an episode that didn't wrap up in a neat little bow like the others did. There was nothing easy about a vengeful ghost without a body to burn, searching for vengeance by drowning the family of its killers. Nothing was really resolved; the Winchesters just shielded Lucas and his mom from suffering due to the sheriff and his friends' mistakes.

This was an impossible mission.

You thought back to the note that now crinkled in the bottom of your bag and realized something. 

This wasn’t about getting it done right. This was about getting it done differently. And, God, if that didn’t just make you feel sick.

You needed to take a breather.

Fortunately, there was an exit just ahead, where you could take a small break at a gas station, maybe get a new water bottle at a nearby store.

Every time you filled up your gas tank, it burned a hole in your pocket. There was only so long before you ran out—and what then? Would you become more than a car thief? Turn to pickpocketing? Credit card fraud?

Ha. Definitely not.

First of all, you had the grace of a rock, so pickpocketing was definitely off the menu, and second, who were you even kidding? You didn’t have the resources or the assets one needed to pull off credit card fraud. The Winchesters had Bobby Singer, for the love of all that is pure and holy. You had nobody.

You were solely dependent on the bastards that put you here, and you hated it.

Not five minutes later, you decided you had had enough of a rest. You needed to get to Lake Manitoc, Wisconsin. Preferably before the Winchesters. So you started up the car and took to the road again.

Just seven more hours to go.

❡

When you finally arrived, you parked yourself at a local playground. It was vacant. The sun was setting, and it was probably curfew for most children.

You got out, stretching your legs and cracking your tightly wound back. You walked over to the public drinking fountain. You watched it skeptically as you filled your water bottle, making sure the water didn't turn that nasty, haunted brown.

It didn’t. Why would it? The water wasn't going to assault you. It wanted the Carltons. You were just so keyed up that it was making you paranoid.

Scoffing, you walked back to your car, climbed back into the driver's seat, and grabbed a granola bar from the glove compartment. Then, you got to business. You snatched the notebook and pen.

You were going to need a plan.  
Most of the episode, Sam and Dean had tried to:

Get a sense of what was going on.  
Determine what it was and why it was killing people.  
Figure out how to stop it. 

You really only had to enact step three, which would hopefully save you a lot of time.

So, with said extra time, you wrote down some proposals.

First off, you try destroying the dam. It would rid of the obvious problem: the ghost itself. And it was already half done for you, right? If you could just blast the dam, wouldn’t it drain the lake faster?

You'd have to scope out the area and determine the consequences of it. The show never covered the full extent of the dam’s damage. You didn't want to go and blow it out on impulse, and then destroy the town with flooding. That would be doing more harm than help.

And if you were going all out here, you could spare some time and save Will from drowning in his sink. Not that you were sure how you'd pull that one off. By then, the Winchesters would already be in town.

The third most obvious idea was to stop Lucas from reaching the lake later in the episode. If he hadn’t been there to touch the water, then the sheriff wouldn't have sacrificed himself for the child in the first place. Except the Winchesters would be within visible range, and that made you nervous just thinking about it.

And… lastly… god, maybe it was a stupid idea, but you could just salt the lake. You weren't sure how productive that would be or how expensive, though. You would need a lot of salt. Plus, you didn’t know the consequences of it. Would it affect the natural wildlife in the area? Would it impact drinking water? You weren’t sure.

If you had the time, you’d try and research it, but you weren’t Sam Winchester with a laptop under his pillow and endless wifi at his service. You just didn’t have the time. The Winchesters would be here by late morning, at the very least. That gave you the night to work in peace.

Noting that, you reviewed your list:

A. Destroy the dam.  
B. Save Will from drowning.  
C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.  
D. Salt the lake?

It wasn’t much to work with.

❡

The dam turned out to be a bust. Figuratively and literally.

The dam was smack dab in the middle of the town. There was no way you could blast it without drawing unwanted attention, nor could you do so without flushing out half the town.

Besides, the floodgates were almost completely open. They were draining just as the sheriff had said—six months and there wouldn’t be a lake anymore. Matter was, you didn’t have six months. You had two days if you were lucky.

You left after that disappointment, your heart heavy in your chest and your mind battling over what to do. The worst thing? The only option was to wait until daylight. 

So much for avoiding the Winchesters. You'd have to be extra careful tomorrow.

It was like something was pulling you together.

Shaking your head, you dug out your list again, scribbling out Plan A.

B. Save Will from drowning.  
C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.  
D. Salt the lake?

Plan B, save Will.  
It came to you then. Tomorrow, you could go and speak with the Carltons yourself. If you could befriend them, maybe you could weasel your way into the house and save them from the inside: something that the Winchesters couldn't ever quite do themselves.

But first, you needed a damn shower. You smelled of body odor and smoke, and you'd have to clean up if you wanted to look at least presentable. You knew there was a truck stop on the outskirts of town with some showers.

It didn't take long to get there. You’d seen the rest stop when you came off the highway and had taken note of it.

Thank god, it supplied shampoo and conditioner. You had almost forgotten the luxury of it all. As much as you wanted to live in the hot water, you cleaned up and dried off pretty quick, knowing you still had a long night ahead of you.

You were going to need some better clothing, if you wanted to look the part. So to the supermarket it was.

You could feel the stares on you and your battered clothing when you walked in. Not that there were many shoppers this late at night, but you were quite the sight. You probably looked homeless.

You found some cheap, acceptable clothing in the clearance aisle. It felt amazing to get out of those rags.

When you got back to your car, sleep evaded you, and your mind kept badgering you with one analogy: you to parking lots, was like the Winchesters to motels. 

Wasn't that just peachy?

❡

The next morning was rougher than you’d like to admit. Your back was protesting, begging for you to sleep on something that wasn’t a crooked surface. Even with the seat leaned back, it was no match to a bed. Not even close. It was cramped, uncomfortable, and restricting.

A dull headache swam through your head and punched a heartbeat into your eardrums. It was probably a result of only eating pbj's and granola bars for a week.

You decided to hit the road. 

You were beginning to dread the sound of the car's engine. Driving = dangerous or unsavory situations. Driving = winchesters. 

You missed home. So much that it physically hurt. It was like the world was against you: the bastards that put you here, the monsters, and even the Winchesters. 

No, especially the Winchesters.

At that moment, you almost quit. It was so tempting.

No.

Your family needed you. You had no idea what situation they were in, or what they were being put through—or they would be put through if you tried anything.

The note had offered you nothing in terms of information to how they were, and you had gained absolutely no ground on your situation thus far. No, your best hope was the Winchesters.

Right, because that’s going so well.

You drove past the park, which was now full of kids. You did a double take when you saw the Winchesters. Dean was speaking with Lucas while Sam was speaking with his mother.

That meant they were done talking with Will for the day. You were in the clear to visit him.

You pulled up to the Carlton's a couple minutes later. He answered the door and offered you a halfhearted smile.

"Hi, um, I just wanted to say that I am so sorry for your loss. I heard…" You pointed toward the town, which was general enough to be just about any house. "I live a little while away, but I just wanted to say we're praying for you and your family."

"Oh,” he said. His expression faltered slightly. “Um, thank you." He shuffled in the doorway, a little flustered. "That means a lot to me. Would you… I'm just about to make dinner. Would like to join us?"

Well, that was unexpected. "Oh, no, I couldn't disturb you like that. I'm sure your father is so torn up… I couldn't imagine." You were crossing your fingers that he insisted you come in. A real meal sounded like heaven. 

"It's really no trouble." Then, he stammered, "I mean, I… I could kind of use a friend right about now, if you don't mind."

Your heart hurt. This poor kid. "Oh, sure! I'm not too busy. I can certainly stay if that would make you feel any better." You fully intended on keeping your word this evening. 

You could fully relate and empathize with him needing a friend to help him through such hard times. This entire week, you felt unloved and abandoned. Perhaps this could even serve as a little break for you.

He opened the door wider to let you in, and you shyly entered. "You're sure this isn't any trouble?”

"I'm sure," he said, smiling at you a little. Then, he walked off into the kitchen.

You peeked around to see the living room. His father, Bill, was staring lamely into the television screen.

You wandered into the kitchen, sitting at the table.

“Sorry for the mess,” Will sighed, bringing out a fish and a cutting board.

Oh god. The water. You almost forgot.

Your heart spiked. “No, no, that’s fine.” You had to say something. "I'm, ah—" he turned to look at you and you choked on the words a little. "I'm allergic to seafood," you confessed. You bit your cheek, hoping the lie would keep him away from the sink for the night.

"Oh," he said. He fidgeted with the fish in his hand for a moment. "I could make pizza. Is that fine?"

You relaxed, your shoulders sagging. "Yeah! Yeah, that sounds… good."

That was close.

❡

The pizza was amazing. You’d almost forgotten the warmth of comfort food.

Feeling nearly giddy, you thanked him for his time, wished him well, and made your leave.

You’d done it; you’d saved him. You had actually saved Will: an innocent young man who nearly suffered because of his father’s past.

It felt good, too. Really good. Your past two ‘hunts’ had been useless: you hadn’t saved Jessica, you hadn’t been the one to save Tommy, either. Not directly. You did get some points on Roy, as he would have died if you distracted the wendigo for the night.

When you got to the car, the moonlight was thin and veiny through the trees. 

Time to head to the park again. Get some shut-eye.

You felt better than you had in a long while. You were fed, and you were high on the knowledge of having saved someone. You, someone who wasn’t cut out for any of this, had managed to pull someone out of harm's way. It felt good. Impossibly good. Too good to be true.

You’d saved a life.

The park wasn't far from his house. You pulled into the empty lot, shut the engine off, and thought in the peaceful silence. 

Today wasn't half bad. You stretched your shoulders, then pulled yourself into the back seat to lay down. It wasn’t much better than the front, but you had some room for your legs now.

You prayed for the Carltons that night, even if the angels listening probably didn't care. You fell asleep in the back seat with dreams to accompany you. 

Something in the air shifted.

You were in a motel. You saw the door open, and in strolled Sam Winchester. Your instinct was to recoil, but you had no physical body to move. You were just a spectator.

Sam's lips were moving, but you only heard half of it. "—safely rule out Nessie."

Your vision lurched as if it was on a bungee cord, snapping back before you could hear the entire sentence. 

Dean’s words faded in and out. "—do you mean?" He was just a blur in the corner of your eyes.

"—Carlton house—ambulance there."  
"Will Carlton is dead."  
"He drowned?"  
"—the sink."

The world snaps and twists, hissing as the scenery changes. You see Bill Carlton, grieving his children on the dock.

"Mr.Carton?—few questions—don't mind."  
"—with the Department—"

Bill has a quiet and sad voice.

"—don't care—with. I've—enough—questions—"

Trying to piece the words together was making your head buzz angrily, but something was forcing you to watch and listen anyway.

Finally, the words cleared out, and it didn't feel like you were watching time fly in fast forward. The narrow window of your vision broke away and you were able to relax and take in what was being said.

Sam was gentle when he pried at Bill. "Did you see anyone? Anything?"

Bill worked his teeth. "He had a girl over. A neighbor. But she was gone before anything happened." He told them because he just wanted to be alone and for the men to leave.

The Winchesters stiffened, and if you had had a body, you would have too.

“Bill... what did the girl look like?”

Bill's words were garbled by another hissing sound, but you knew what he was saying anyway. The Winchesters turned and looked you dead in the eyes, and then you woke up.

You composed yourself. It was five in the morning, and you suddenly didn't feel as content as you had last night.

Your hand pulled at your sweaty shirt collar. Just a dream. Damn awful dream.

A high-pitched, wailing siren could be heard in the distance. As the sound neared, and you saw an ambulance zip past the park. 

Not a dream.

You sat up. There was a crink of paper in your lap as you did so, and you paused, hands slowly reaching where a note lay.

It read:  
'You still have time.'

You glared at the note. "What the hell does that mean? Will is already dead. What do you mean, 'you still have—’"

Oh.

You shot up in a flurry, grabbed the front seats, and hauled yourself into the driver's seat. You couldn't believe you had forgotten.

Bill was next.

❡

As suspected, the Carltons' place was crawling with police. There was no way you were getting over there until later, but it confirmed your worst fears: Will was dead.

So the only two things you’d accomplished last night had been eating his food and given the police a reasonable argument to arrest you. Lovely.

You really weren’t cut out for this hunter stuff. Every time you tried to help, you only were setting yourself up to look like the bad guy.

Every. Single. Time.

And as if things couldn’t get worse, Sam Winchester saw you. He was too far away to read his face, but you didn’t need perfect vision to see the hostility in his eyes.

You backed away, as shocked as he was to see you, and you took off in the opposite direction. Lucky for you, you were used to being invisible.

You were running for your life. Again.

You had a couple hundred feet of a head-start, weaving behind trees and buildings to disappear from his line of sight. You managed to position yourself behind a dumpster.

You plastered yourself against the wall, holding your breath as you watched him pause. After some time searching, he finally gave up and headed back to his motel room.

You released a painful breath. You needed to speak with Bill before the Winchesters did. You knew what he was going to do, and this is time, you couldn’t afford to mess it up.

You tapped your pen on your lap.

Things were looking pretty bad for you. You had an hour before the Winchesters tried to talk with Bill, and you had a feeling your ‘dream’ last night had been more of a vision.

Was there any reason to stop it? The Winchesters knew you were here already, so what difference did it make?

Actually, it made every difference. Bill was going to mention that you had been there, in his home. And if everything hadn’t broken apart already, it would then. Any part of the Winchesters that still believed you could be innocent would be gone—brushed away by the stacking evidence of your guilt.

Especially if you let Bill Carlton die.

You sat in your car for the longest time. Just staring at your sad little list.

C. Stop Lucas from touching the lake.  
D. Salt the lake?

You hadn’t even put Bill on the list. You had just assumed Will would have been the domino keeping him from killing himself. The possibility of failing to save him hadn’t even crossed your mind.

Everything you did, it was like a higher power was deciding otherwise.

Dipping your head, you added to the list:

E. Save Bill Carlton.

❡

Later, when you made it to the Carltons', the police were gone, and the Winchesters had left. You could see Bill sulking on the dock.

You made your way up to him. You weren’t sure what to say, so you said nothing, even when he saw you come up. You gave him a good ten feet of space and sat down on the dock, staring at the water. You thought, maybe, some silence would be a good way to start this conversation.

Then, you started small. "I can't imagine," you said softly. "What it is like to lose your children."

"Then why are you even here?" His voice was raspy from crying. Desperate to be alone.

"Because I know what it's like to be without your family. I know exactly what that's like." When he said nothing, you sighed. "And I know what you're going to do today. And I want to keep you from making a mistake."

"There's no point anymore. My world is gone," he said. "They've taken everything from me."

Your shoulders sank. Didn't that sound familiar. "Please. Please, just let me help you."

"You can't."

Here come the tears. You couldn't help it. Even in front of this grieving man, you began to cry. At first, you tried to rein it in, but soon your breaths were shallow and your shoulders shook with ugly sobs.

It was a delayed mental breakdown—one you probably should have had the first day you showed up in this godforsaken universe. But it hadn't happened until now because you were always either in the midst of danger, where you were forced to keep your emotions reined in, or you were exhausted from a day of running around.

"Please," you managed to hiccup. "Let me help you."

You can feel his stare. "Why would you even want to," he said. "You… you hardly even met Will yesterday."

Embarrassed, you tried and failed at composing yourself. He was supposed to be the emotional one. "There—" you paused, cringing at the crack in your voice. "There's um… there's this saying." Your tears were working against you, and you blinked to contain them. "It's called Always Keep Fighting."

Bill was quiet.

"And… I've been trying to follow it. I have. It's so hard to keep fighting right now. This… this mess that I'm in right now is killing me. And I'm struggling. I have no one to help me through it. I keep thinking, what the hell is the point? Everything... every _one_ is already gone.” 

He was quiet, but he was listening.

You took a breath. "I keep asking, what am I even still doing this for? And... and if you had asked me that question yesterday, I would have told you I didn't know. But I think I've figured it out now."

You looked up. Bill's eyes were soft.

"Saving people," you said. "I was… hopeful before. Thinking maybe I could… maybe I could actually do this. But after…" you trailed off.

Bill waited until he realized you weren't going to keep talking. "After..?" he questioned. You looked up and he realized. "After Will," he murmured.

"I failed Will," you admitted. You closed your eyes. "I am… so sorry about your son. It's my fault. It's all my fault."

There was nothing for a while—just the hum of the breeze in your ears.

"It's not your fault."

You're not sure how to digest that yet. "I…I know about what happened. When you were a kid. With Peter." Before he could say anything, you cut him off. "I still want to help. I still want to keep you from doing this."

"Why?"

You finally turn to him fully. His expression is a mixture of emotions. "You made a mistake."

"I _killed _him."__

__"And you regret it?"_ _

__"Always."_ _

__"Then you deserve forgiveness," you said._ _

__Bill sobbed. "He's just going to keep taking everyone I love."_ _

__"Not if I can help it."_ _

__He sent you a sad, questioning look._ _

__"Peter's ghost is tied to this lake. It can get into the pipes in this town, but that's its limit. If you left, he wouldn't be able to reach you or the sheriff. The lake won't be here in a matter of six months. After that, it shouldn't bother you ever again." You rubbed the back of your neck. "I… I can't bring back your kids, but I could keep it away from you for good. You could rebuild."_ _

__He looked conflicted, still torn on whether he should just get on that boat and end the pain. He looked so hopeless. "It will still be out there, waiting. If it returned… I've already lost everything. You can't ask me to do it again."_ _

__"Actually... I might have an idea how to solve that," you said. "Any chance you have a home computer?"_ _

__❡_ _

__

__"So, they've relocated all the fish to drain it. And…" you paused, clicking on a link. "No way."_ _

__"What is it?"_ _

__“The town isn't keen on using water that three people have died in. They're going to filter the whole thing when it drains. Do you know what this means?" You look up, a smile lighting up your face. "It means no more ghosts in the water."_ _

__"It will be gone?" he said skeptically. "For good?"_ _

__"No ghost can get past salt. It should get trapped in the dam. I have an idea for that, too."_ _

__Bill hummed in question._ _

__"To get rid of a ghost for good, you have to salt and burn the remains. So when it's done draining... I'm going to blast the dam down. Or, at least someone who's better at covering their tracks will."_ _

__Bill hummed._ _

__You wrote your notes down, nodding to yourself, and then looked up in apprehension. "Bill… I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell those… agents that you came up with this plan yourself. Don't tell them it was me.”_ _

__“They’ll buy that?”_ _

__“If it goes how I think it will, they'll gladly go along with the plan. Can you do that?"_ _

__Bill still looked pretty beaten down. "I can do that."_ _

__You ripped out a new sheet of paper and handed it to Bill. "You think you can write these down in your own handwriting? I don't need anything hinting that this was me."_ _

__Bill watched you warily. "You running from these guys or something?"_ _

__"Or something. We don't exactly get along."_ _

__"I don't see why not. You seem to have the same goals."_ _

__You laughed a little at that. "Yeah, well… we had a misunderstanding. And right now, they don't like me so much. It would… make my life easier if you didn't give me the credit on this one."_ _

__“If you say so.”_ _

__❡_ _

__The Winchesters were going to show up soon._ _

__Instead of finding Bill on the boat, they were going to find him with a plan. You just hoped that Bill would sell it._ _

__The Winchesters would probably be suspicious, but it was the best plan you had. If they could blow the dam up once the lake drained, then the ghost would be gone. It would be thoroughly salted and burned._ _

__You told Bill to leave town for at least six months._ _

__You suggested he check out the Roadhouse in Nebraska while he was away._ _

__Anyway, you weren't asking Bill to become a hunter. No way. If it came to that, that was entirely his choice._ _

__You just thought that he might find comfort in an environment he would empathize with. Besides, the Roadhouse wasn't a hunter-only bar. It was just... hunter-popular. Normal people went there all the time._ _

__Or, that’s what you convinced yourself, anyway._ _

__It was only to take his mind off his deceased kids and set him in a place where he could possibly relate to people. The Roadhouse certainly had a lot of tales and misfortunes to share amongst themselves. It would do him some good, anyway. Shuttering himself away would only isolate and tear at his fragile mental state._ _

__Perhaps you could listen to your own advice, part of yourself thought wistfully._ _

__No. That was entirely different._ _

__Wait a minute._ _

__Tonight, you knew Andrea was going to almost-drown in the bathtub._ _

__When Bill died, the Winchesters had gone to speak with the sheriff, Jake Devins, who kicked them out of town. Then Lucas tugged on Dean's arm, begging him to come back…_ _

__Except you’d prevented Bill’s death. So if the Winchesters never confronted the sheriff…_ _

__There was no one around to save Andrea._ _

__There was no guarantee, though. Something still could have prompted the Winchesters to visit the sheriff, but you had no way of knowing that._ _

__There were two ways this could go down._ _

__One, they didn't know, you showed up, and you might not be strong enough to save her._ _

__Two, they did show up and save her, and if they caught sight of you…_ _

__Damn it._ _

__❡_ _

__You showed up at Andrea’s early._ _

__You hid within the trees, hyper-aware that you were probably standing right over the buried, haunted bicycle. Too bad the bicycle wasn't the source. Your job would have been a lot easier._ _

__You sat on the ground, positioning yourself to hide from the main view of the road, but with enough of a window between the trees to watch the house and its pattern of lights._ _

__You took note of the house’s layout. Making rough assumptions of where Lucas's bedroom was, where the hallway to the bathroom was, and where Andrea's bedroom was from what little you could see through the window._ _

__So you sat there in the dark for an hour until finally the lights shifted. You sat up, watching and waiting, hesitating to move forward._ _

__Before you grew enough courage to move though, deus ex machina drove up._ _

__The Impala._ _

__You sat down again, admittedly relieved. You ducked further behind the trees to hide and watched the traumatic scene unfold from the shadows._ _

__If you had gone out there just a minute before, they would have seen you._ _

__And… oh hell, your hands were trembling. You needed to calm down. There was nothing to get worked up about._ _

__First of all, this meant they did end up seeing Lucas again. Which meant that they did go to see the sheriff, who didn't kick them out of town. Which meant they probably went to discuss the dam after getting Bill's note, which you supposed was good. Really good, actually. They must have taken the note seriously, at least._ _

__You could breathe again once you saw Andrea, very naked and very afraid, but also very alive._ _

__You began to calm, exhausted, growing more comfortable against the log. Your eyes grew heavy, watching as the Winchester brothers consoled Andrea._ _

__It was enough to lull you to sleep._ _

__You saw a figure in the distance. A trenchcoat that swayed in the calmest of breezes._ _

__You felt dizzy when you stood, pushing through the trees to reach the figure. “Castiel?” you asked. It became harder to stand, harder to focus on keeping balance. Your feet felt like lead. “Cas? Cas, help me.”_ _

__“I’ve been getting your prayers.” He turned, peering down. He reached out and steadied you. “Things will get more difficult. I need you to understand this.”_ _

__“Why?”_ _

__He shook his head. “Your car will hold the necessities for your next trip. There isn’t enough time to explain; it is difficult enough to contact you as it is.” He looked up into the distance in alarm. You tried to follow his gaze, but it was something invisible to you. “You need to wake up.”_ _

__Sunshine bled into the dark world, and you blinked against the blinding light surrounding you. “Cas?” you asked. You reached out frightfully at his arm. “Cas, I don’t underst—”_ _

__“Wake up.”_ _

__You did. Abruptly. It was morning and your back felt like a slate of concrete. You choked on a small sob as you sat up, hand immediately reaching for your back._ _

__You went rigid as you noticed the Winchesters outside, talking with Andrea and Lucas. They were walking._ _

__Toward the bike._ _

__Toward you._ _

__You scramble to your feet, ducking down and running deeper into the wooded area, where they hopefully wouldn’t see you. You threw a hand over your mouth to muffle your breathing and they approached._ _

__Then you heard the confrontation between the sheriff and the Winchesters. Your heart was beating out of your chest._ _

__From the corner of your eye, you saw Lucas’s figure nearing the lake._ _

__You hesitated._ _

__You realized how selfish that was. If the Winchesters were in your position, there was no doubt in your mind they’d run after Lucas. So you would too._ _

__You bolted, barreling past the Winchesters and straight-up tackling the kid on the dock. Next thing you knew, Lucas was pinned beneath you. Everything seemed alright for a moment._ _

__Then the Winchesters were running in your direction and Lucas was struggling, and the lake sloshed and the rickety dock creaked against the force of the water. The ghost was destroying the dock._ _

__With freak strength, you tossed the kid at Sam Winchester, who barely managed to catch him against his chest without toppling over._ _

__Nothing moved. Not you, not the Winchesters, not Lucas, not the sheriff, not even the ghost._ _

__The dock collapsed._ _

__You gasped, plunging under the water. For a moment, everything was dark and muted. You fought against the swirling black but broke the surface a moment later and choked on the water that had shoved up your nose._ _

__Panic took hold of you, realizing there was a crazy homicidal ghost beneath your feet and you hauled yourself up onto the motor boat, sopping wet and shaking with fear and adrenaline._ _

__The Winchesters finally came to their senses as you started the motor. Dean shouts, running up to the edge of the lake, but it was too late._ _

__You were far away by then._ _

__❡_ _

__Your car offered you a place of refuge and comfort._ _

__You frowned at the new bag sitting on your passenger seat. It was so conspicuous that they might as well have placed it on the roof of the car. “Do you want me getting robbed?” you muttered under your breath._ _

__Had Castiel really visited you? And what were his intentions? It was only Season 1, after all. You couldn’t be sure that Castiel was on your side._ _

__You couldn’t be sure of anything._ _

__Season 4 you could probably gauge where his loyalties lied. Season 1? You would just have to assume he wasn’t on your side. As much as you wished you had a friend in all this, it was hopeless._ _

__You were entirely alone._ _

__Despite having saved two people today, you were melancholic. You sulkily unlocked the car and pulled the bag onto your lap. You pulled out a credit card. Your joys halted upon reading the note: ‘For the flight.’_ _

__Right. That._ _


	4. Phantom Traveler

Nazareth, Pennsylvania had a brisk, winter breeze on the day you got there. You primarily stayed in the warmth of your car for a few days, napping and resting, but you were forced to get out and stop in a store bathroom once in a while.

At some point that week, you bought a newspaper, too. The days were starting to blur together, and you needed to keep your bearings if you were going to try and follow the Supernatural timeline.

December 4th, 2005. Thanksgiving had already passed. You hadn’t even noticed. 

Not that you had much to be thankful for.

Tomorrow would mark the first time the Winchester boys hunt a demon. That thought was just bizarre, considering their future was full of demons.

You tallied the days in your head. November 2nd, Jess died. A week later, you took on the Wendigo. Then you took on the water-ghost for about two weeks. And it had taken you several days to recover before winding up in Pennsylvania.

You’d been in this world for about a month now, and you still hadn’t accomplished much in your effort to change the timeline.

You were fast approaching the episode 'Phantom Traveler'. There was nothing you could do but wait for the Winchesters because you were getting on the same flight as them, anyway.

When you got back in your car, you noticed a little flappy object in the passenger seat. A sight becoming irritatingly familiar to you.

Notes. Why couldn't they just talk in person? 

You turned the slightly crumpled note and flattening it. ‘Check your trunk.’

The notes were becoming more and more worthless, and more and more frequent. "Hello to you too," you muttered, throwing down the note and marching over to the truck and propping it open.

It was chaos. Someone must have gone all-day mall shopping and decided to cram it all in the back of your car without any care for decency. There was clothing everywhere.

You put your hands on your hips, looking down at the mess, and sighed. "Thanks guys. Now I _actually_ look homeless."

As if you didn't have enough to handle already. There was no point in driving yet when you had this mess to deal with. So almost too calmly, you turned away for a minute.

They were just mocking you, at this point.

Okay. Just breathe. There was no use getting angry when you didn't have anyone to punch.

They never gave you anything just to be _kind_ , so what was the point? What exactly were they hoping to achieve?

Being alone gave you plenty of time to wonder.

The first too-obvious answer would be: more clothes made your job easier. 

But since when have they cared about your comfort? The angels didn't care about _you_. You were a gnat in comparison to the Winchesters, and even they weren't seen as anything more than monkeys.

Your entire relationship with your captors had been built around threats and warnings. Never anything more face to face than a dream, and they dehumanized you with orders on _notes_.

Their goal? To control you. To keep you isolated. To keep you quiet. If you made enemies with the Winchesters, then the boys would have no incentive to ever help you.

The revelation hit you like a truck.

These clothes were to make you dependent on them. If you rebelled, they could take everything away until you begged for their help again. They were making you their bitch.

And it was working.

You recoiled. You had no choice but to accept the help because you needed it. You needed everything you could get.

Something else caught your eye. Carefully, you pulled it from the pile until it revealed a wig.

❡

You sat brooding in your car for a very long time.

You refused to put the clothes on. The wig sat in the passenger seat, taunting. Your rebellious side had the violent urge to just burn it all to a crisp.

You were debating this when a flap of wings interrupted. You swore loudly.

“There is nothing holy about feces.”

They had finally sent someone. Not just someone: _Castiel_.

"You are reluctant to wear your given disguise." He was unreadable.

You spat, "I know what you're doing."

"You… understand your family’s situation?" If there was any warmth in his eyes, you did not see it. "So long as you comply with our orders, they will not be harmed."

"Orders?" you scoffed. "Orders?! You mean _these?"_ You snatched the stack of notes from the cup holder, making sure to crumple it in his face. _"This_ garbage is what you call an order?!"

Castiel didn't flinch.

You stared him dead in the eyes. "This is ridiculous. I want your 'orders' in person from here on out."

"I'm not sure we can do that."

You shot him an incredulous look. "And why not? You're doing it right now!"

"This is an exception,” he said. But it made you wonder if Castiel had fought his superiors for this. “It is not time for angels to visit the Earth yet. You know this."

"And I'm an exception?"

"You're a problem," he corrected, finally turning to stare into your soul. "Things will get much more difficult if you don’t comply." And then he was gone.

❡

That night, you sprawled in the backseat with your eyes shut but not asleep. 

Before, the car had felt like a barrier between the monsters and you. Now, it felt penetrable.

You thought of your family. Wondered if they were cold like you were. Wondered if they were scared. If they even knew what was happening.

You only got a few hours of light sleep. It was five in the morning.

You know that you had time before you had to get on that flight. The Winchesters wasted most of their day talking to the survivors and breaking into the plane wreckage as fake Homeland Security.

You smiled to yourself a little, recalling their innocence. That was something you could relate to. Even if the future held far bigger monsters, each hunt still felt astronomically difficult.

You liked the Winchesters. You did. They just didn't like _you_. It was all just… wrong place, wrong time, a chain of unfortunate events.

Coincidence.

Who were you kidding? When was anything ever just a coincidence in this show?

What if something had manipulated all those failings and misunderstandings? What if none of this was your fault? You wouldn’t put it past the angels. They would do anything to keep you from gaining the trust of the Winchesters.

You were never getting out of here, were you?

❡

You looked like a different person.

Which, you supposed, was the point.

You stood in front of the airport bathroom's mirror, adjusting your dark sunglasses and combing your hair out.

Thirty minutes later, you boarded the plane. You had spent far too much time rationalizing this risk. These were real people, and this plane would definitely plummet in forty minutes.

Sucking in a harsh breath, you decided to focus on step one: finding your seat. It didn’t take long, and when you sat down, feeling yourself get panicky. You couldn't let that happen, now could you? It would be extremely counterproductive if you got possessed.

Hunters weren't whiny babies. Toughen up.

You looked up, watching as people boarded and held your breath as two familiar faces entered and sat to your left.

You were sitting right by the Winchesters.

The first ten minutes, you felt lousy and scared stiff. This plane was going to take the plunge in a little over a half an hour. These people had no idea, save for you or the Winchesters. And even they know the extent of it. Only you. 

They probably figured they could exorcise the demon before too much happened.

"Just try to relax," Sam said.

"Just try to shut up.”

The engines whirred, shaking the plane as it lifted itself into the air.

Dean was fidgeting in his seat, humming Metallica. “I hate freaking airplanes,” he breathed as the plane shuddered.

You couldn’t agree more.

There wasn't much to do but wait for the Winchesters to fumble around and finally find the demon.

As time extended, you became more uncomfortable. A ball of pain in your stomach like a little knot, which was slowly suffocating under the tension. Then, you realized: you were on your period.

Of all places.

You turned to a kind-looking lady behind the Winchesters and whispered, "Ma'am? Do you have..."

Hearing your question, Dean glanced at you curiously. 

Stupid nosy Winchesters.

You clenched and unclenched your fist. “Do you have... feminine supplies?” you murmured.

Dean looked away, flustered. The man who avoided chick flick moments better than he avoided monsters, was very protective of his masculinity.

The lady made an understanding little 'o' with her mouth and her voice became a touch quieter. "Oh, do you need something, dear?" When you nodded, she kindly offered some.

You thanked her and left for the bathroom, relieved to finally escape that little space. Your heart was fluttering in your chest, and you needed to calm the hell down before you had a demon cramming itself down your throat.

Brightside was that the Winchesters didn't recognize you yet.

❡

The Winchesters were finally starting to ask the right questions. Who was it possessing?

You knew fully well, having watched the entire show, that the 'chink the armor' thing was a plothole. Unless this demon just had its own rules versus other demons. Or maybe this universe just bent with the rules of the show, evolving overtime to fit to the plot.

The Winchesters started focusing on Amanda.

You knew that it wasn’t her, so the entire time you wanted to roll your eyes. Dean brought out the holy water and you nearly snorted.

You glanced over, wishing you could just get your hands on that exorcism. Alas, Sam Winchester was sitting not two feet from the book on Dean’s seat.

You didn’t have to wake long for Dean to return. "Alright, well she has gotta be the most well-adjusted person on the planet."

Sam is talking with him in murmurs as you try to compose yourself and your love for these boys, despite the fact that they’re pretty keen on gutting you the next time you show your face.

Some turbulence rattles the plane and Dean tenses. "Come on, that can't be normal!" you hear, then there are some angry hushes between them.

But you know what they’re saying to each other: "You are wide open to demonic possession."

With that, Dean takes a few exaggerated, deep breaths. It’s not very convincing, but then again, the demon never possessed him.

It was sort of comical that none of the other passengers were concerned about their conversations. Like, Sam Winchester was literally _talking out loud_ about _exorcism_ , and the rest of the plane was in La La Land. Did nobody have ears?

Despite having a lower voice, you could hear them both pretty clearly. “Rituale Romanum, two parts”, blah blah, “expels demon”, “manifest”, “more powerful”. The second part sent it back to hell. Easy peasy. 

You were pretty sure they used a shorter exorcism later in the show… but… whatever. 

Dean brings out his signature EMF meter he’d built out of a walkman. And soon enough, he was trying to covertly scan the plane. Of course, he was terrible at hiding it. Any hunter could see what it was, and any passenger was more than agitated by the weird sweeps of Dean’s hands. 

Sam scared Dean by grabbing his shoulders, and you realize shit was about to go down pretty soon. 

"Anything?" 

"No, nothing. How much time we got?" 

"Fifteen minutes." 

"Maybe we missed somebody." 

On cue, the EMF meter lit up red. The flight attendant came out, and the Winchesters stared. 

You couldn’t help it: you mouthed "Christo" just as Dean said it, and the flight attendant's eyes flashed black. 

❡ 

There were twelve minutes left. Twelve minutes until the plane plummeted and hopefully you didn’t crash. 

You weren’t ready for this. 

You decided that focusing on what was happening was the best way to focus, you watched as the Winchesters went to talk with Amanda. 

You cursed to yourself. Sam took the book with him. Of course, he did. 

Suddenly, it's a little harder to breathe on the stuffy airplane. Your heart rate spiked and you jumped a little as Amanda came out to go and fetch the flight attendant. Your minutes were dwindling. 

The flight attendant passed by and you weren’t sure what to do anymore. Should you go help? That would certainly defeat the purpose of a disguise, wouldn’t it. 

Watching the show, you’d always thought this part was so much louder. After all, the commotion was only covered by some thin curtains. You had always wondered why the civilians weren’t more concerned. 

In that way, you were partially correct. The fight in the back certainly alarmed everyone, but Amanda guarded the doorway.

Then, the book was thrown into the aisle. You snatched it, bracing yourself.

Your stomach dropped, and screams erupted from all around the plane.

_I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling I’m falling-_

You had a death grip on the seats around you as you tried to focus on the shaking words in your hands. 

“Terribilis!” you shouted, though muffled by the screaming passengers. “Deus de... sanctuario suo! Deus... Israhel ipse truderit virtutem! Et fortitudinem plebi... Suae. Benedictus deus!” You barely kept your balance, bellowing the last words: “Gloria patri!” 

Thunder shook the plane out and it was flying normally again. 

Everyone was shaken. The Winchesters looked to you, then their book, then you again. They had yet to recognize you. 

You had to leave before they did. 

❡ 

You were really hoping to leave the area without the Winchesters tagging behind. You did everything you could to disappear, but to no avail, they caught up with you. 

They were suspicious and rightly so. A hunter just happened to be on the same flight as them? Coincidences were never coincidences, and you couldn’t agree more. 

The strategy they were using to corner you was obvious. Dean was at your side, walking for an awkward minute before he said anything.

“So, how long have you been hunting?” Dean asked carefully. Not how, not why, just when. You could respect that: respecting boundaries and avoiding triggers. How’s and why’s usually only ever led with a hunter’s trauma. 

You forced your breathing to be even as your mind raced. “Bout a month.” You could see their dad’s journal peeking out from Dean’s pocket. 

Then, a thought came to mind: a dangerous, dangerous thought. 

Both of their eyebrows raised, rocking back on their heels a little. “And you could recite an exorcism?” 

“I didn’t recite it. I had your book.” 

Sam shook his head. “There was no way you could read that thing. I could hardly read the exit sign.” 

“You could say I’ve had some practice.” Hell, you learned it _from them_. “Anyway, there was only a little left to recite.” You nudged Dean, knocking the journal from his pocket and smoothly into your coat. “You guys did most of the work.” 

You were despicable. 

They look impressed. “You’ve hunted demons?” 

That was a bit of a funny question, coming from the Winchesters. And also an unexpected one. You got flustered. “Oh—uh... no,” you said. 

Sam's eyes caught yours. First, his eyebrows twitched in recognition, and then he went rigid. 

You felt all your blood rush from your face. You turned tail and fled for your life. Why does it always go like this? Like, c’mon. This isn’t Tom and Jerry. 

"Dean! She—!" Sam yelled and took off.

Dean shouted after his brother in confusion. 

"It’s _her!"_

You rounded a corner, then slammed into the chest of a man. You made out a beige trench coat just at your eye level, and you knew who it was. You gasped, nearly falling on your rear, but his hand got your arm and there was a distorted flutter. 

Dean was not kidding when he said angel travel sucked. 

You curled into yourself, cradling your head. That had seriously messed with your ears. You choked on a little bile, but you weren’t nauseous enough to actually vomit. You just really wanted to. 

Before you could say anything, he was gone. 

You were alone once again. 


End file.
